The Cottage on Juniper Ridge (11 page)

Dean wandered into the family room. “What’s this?”

“Just my show,” Stacy said, turning it off.

He sank down on the couch next to her. “Aren’t you going to watch it?”

“Maybe later.” When he wasn’t around to compare her to some hoarder on TV. “Don’t you have papers to grade?”

“I just finished. Thought I’d come hang with you. But I don’t mind watching your show.”

“No, that’s okay,” she said quickly. “Why don’t we watch one of our Netflix movies?”

He shrugged. “Sure, if you’d rather.”

She’d definitely rather. All around her lately it seemed as if people were talking about stuff—having too much of it, getting rid of it and, now, hoarding it. What was wrong with having things? Especially if they were nice. Okay, so she had a lot, but so what? That was the American way.

She wasn’t like those women she’d been watching. And she didn’t care what Muriel Sterling or anyone else said. She didn’t have too much stuff and she wasn’t getting rid of anything. She’d have to receive a message from heaven, get a visit from the Ghost of Christmas Clutter or...some totally cosmic sign before she started tossing her possessions.

Dean selected a movie featuring a bunch of crooks planning a heist, and she set aside all thoughts of hoarding. (She was so deleting that show without watching another minute of it.) But then one of the crooks said something that brought her mind right back to the subject she kept trying to avoid.

“The old guy has so much he’ll never miss those paintings. Hell, it’s gonna be days before he even sees they’re gone from the walls.”

Did she have so much she wouldn’t miss some of it? How many scarves did she need? And how many decorations for various seasons and holidays did she have stuffed away that never made it down from the attic? She thought of the kitchen gadgets, the I-have-a-dream dresses hanging in her closet in a size she’d probably never see again.

Still, she might use those decorations. She might lose weight. It was the new year, after all.

The movie played on and the heist continued and Stacy tried to concentrate on what was happening. She hoped those crooks got caught and paid big-time. She didn’t care if the person they were robbing had more than he needed. It wasn’t nice to separate people from things they valued.

In the end, the crooks got away and she was disappointed. Good thing she’d been multitasking and working on her quilt or she would’ve been really irritated over wasting two hours of her time.

“There’s two hours I’ll never get back,” she said as the ending credits rolled.

Dean chuckled. “I don’t know. I enjoyed that movie.”

“Crooks stealing and getting away with it? Yuck.”

“Oh, it’s not always bad to steal,” Dean said.

“What?”

He turned off the TV and kissed her. “Stealing a kiss is always good,” he said, and planted another kiss on the sensitive spot behind her ear. “So is stealing someone’s heart,” he added softly. “You sure stole mine the first time I saw you.”

Now he was nuzzling her neck. Okay, she was done quilting. She set aside her work in progress and let her husband steal kisses to his heart’s content. Sex on the couch, one of the advantages of being empty-nesters.

She went to bed later wearing a smile.

But she woke up at five in the morning in a state of terror.

It began when her collection of Santas escaped their box and came looking for her. They’d grown to the size of small children and there were so many of them they filled the whole bedroom. Some sat on the window seat. Others piled onto her slipper chair.

“You’re going to break that!” she cried.

“There’s no room anywhere else,” protested the Santa with the glued-on head.

He was right. They covered every inch of floor space. They sat on the bed. One of them sat on her legs, almost crushing them.

“Get off!” she yelled.

The Santa didn’t budge. “We’re going to smother you,” he threatened, and began crawling up her body.

“Let’s party,” said another, and suddenly they had her Christmas dishes, and plates were flying everywhere. Another Santa had hauled in an entire drawer from her kitchen, the one with all the gadgets she never used. “These could go in my sleigh. I know women who could use them.” Meanwhile, the Santa who’d been crawling all over her sat on her chest.

“I can’t breathe,” she choked.

The Santa leaned over until his face was inches from hers, and now his red nose and his twinkling eyes were gone, replaced by the grimacing face of some dark monster. “That’s because you have
too much crap!
” he roared.

She sat up in bed with a gasp, breathing hard. Okay, there was the cosmic sign. She got it. She needed to lighten her load.

Chapter Ten

Less is more. Which is something that goes
for the people in our lives as well as the things.

—Muriel Sterling, author of
Simplicity

C
hita had been thinking about clearing her
schedule since the book club meeting. Even taking mental inventory of everything
that filled her days was exhausting. Saturdays were a blur of errands and
cleaning and running kids around. She had Mass on Sundays, followed by Sunday
dinner with her siblings at her mother’s, and during the week, there was work
all day followed by more work once she got home, plus helping the kids with
their homework and taking them to their various activities. None of that was
negotiable. Then there was book club once a month. She sure didn’t want to give
that up. It was her sanity break.

That left one thing, one big time-suck. The Girls of America.
(Their slogan: Today’s Girls Are Tomorrow’s Leaders.) Such a worthwhile
organization. And they needed volunteers. But sometimes, especially when the
girls were being difficult, she wondered if the organization really needed
her.
And if
she
really
needed the headaches. She not only had to host the meetings, she also had to
prepare for them, organize the activities, make sure she had snacks for the
girls.

Why didn’t any of the other moms offer to bring snacks or come
over to help? Oh, yes, they were busy. That was the excuse she always got when
she put out an SOS.

Like she wasn’t? Most of these women had husbands to take up
the slack. She had...her mother. And Mama had a husband, other children, other
responsibilities. She couldn’t be around all the time to help her daughter.
Considering how much her mother nagged, this was actually a blessing in
disguise.

Girls of America night rolled around, and once again Chita had
eight girls in her small living room, breaking the sound barrier with shrieks
and laughter. She’d lessened the chaos by two. Enrico was at a friend’s house
and Hidalgo was locked in Anna’s room where he wouldn’t be tempted to eat the
craft supplies.

Tonight was Earth Night, and their craft project was to make
jewelry out of recycled items. The two card tables she’d set up were littered
with plastic bottle caps, paint, cut-up egg cartons, gum wrappers and glue.
She’d learned early on that tomorrow’s leaders were also today’s slobs and had
put plastic dropcloths under the tables to spare her carpet.

Alice Graves, who met all the qualifications for being a
handful, was already finished and wearing her necklace. Chita had suggested that
she make a second one, but she preferred to toss bottle caps at the other
girls.

“When do we eat?” she asked Chita.

“In a few minutes,” Chita said. “Would you like to come into
the kitchen and help me get tonight’s snack ready?”

“I’m not finished,” Alice said, and grabbed a paintbrush.

Right. This was one leader of tomorrow who was probably never
going to lead by example, at least not a good example. “Okay. You finish and
I’ll see about the treats,” Chita said. “Five more minutes, girls, then we’re
going to clean up.”

She slipped into the kitchen to cut up the Rice Krispies Treats
and pour juice. She was just setting eight plates around the table when her
daughter’s angry voice drifted in to her. “Am not!” This was followed by
giggles.

Madre de Dios,
what now? Chita
rushed back into the living room. At the sight of her the giggles stopped. Her
daughter was looking daggers at both Alice and her sidekick, Zuzu Welling.

Zuzu had an adorable little freckled face to match her adorable
little name. Zuzu was a demon child. She kept her gaze down but she couldn’t
keep the smirk off her face.

“Okay, what happened?” Chita demanded.

Everyone looked at her innocently. No one said anything.

Except Anna, who glared at Alice and cried, “I hate you!” Then
she ran from the room and up the stairs to her bedroom.

“Alice, what happened?” Chita asked, working hard to keep her
voice level. This was taking superhuman effort considering the fact that she
could get sued for what she’d like to do to Alice and Zuzu right now. Whatever
they’d done to make her child cry, spanking was too good for them.

“Nothing,” Alice said, wide-eyed.

Chita planted her hands on the table and leaned over the child.
“I think you’d better tell me,
chica.
”

Alice blinked several times and for a moment her lower lip
wobbled. But the child had a will of iron. In the end, she narrowed her eyes and
stuck out her chin at a pugnacious angle. “I just told the truth.”

Chita narrowed her eyes right back. “Oh? And what truth did you
tell?”

Anna’s friend Emma piped up. “She said you’re aliens and you
shouldn’t even be here and that nobody wants you here.”

Chita straightened and backed away, feeling as if she’d been
slapped. Alice obviously had heard this at home and now, here she was in Chita’s
house, spreading the poison. She looked down at the child in disgust. Alice was
a spoiled little bully and Chita wanted nothing more than to smack her. And her
mother. Or father. Or both. And Zuzu was just as bad. Alice was the more vocal
of the two, but Zuzu’s wickedness was subtler. For all Chita knew, Zuzu had put
those words in Alice’s mouth.

“And is this how a Girl of America, a future leader, behaves,
spreading things that aren’t true?”

“It is true!” Alice insisted. “Zuzu’s grandpa said so. He said
Anna’s probably an anchor.”

As in anchor baby, a child born to an illegal alien or
undocumented worker, whichever term you used. A parade of choice curses marched
through Chita’s mind, but she kept them there. “Well, I’m afraid Zuzu’s grandpa
is wrong. Anna and Enrico and I are all U.S. citizens, just like you. My
grandfather came to this country to work in the orchards and he became an
American citizen. Unless you’re a Native American—” no one present was “—someone
in each of your families also came to this country in search of a better life
and had to apply for citizenship. And I would hope they were treated more kindly
than you’ve just treated Anna.”

Alice frowned and studied the painted bits of egg carton in
front of her and Zuzu’s smirk dissolved.

Chita glanced around the table. “Is this how Girls of America
behave?” she asked them all. “Do you bully and tease other girls? Do you spread
lies?”

A couple of girls hung their heads. Alice scowled. Zuzu tried
to look innocent.

“No, Mrs. Arness,” Emma said. “They should apologize for being
mean to Anna.”

“Yes, they should.” Chita looked around the table. “Now, I’m
going to bring Anna back down here and I want you
all
to apologize.”

She went up to her daughter’s room with a heavy heart.
Prejudice was nothing new. She’d experienced her share growing up, but really,
she’d thought people were more enlightened now, especially here in Icicle Falls
where everyone was so friendly. Obviously, she’d thought wrong.

She found Anna lying across her bed, sobbing, Hidalgo by her
side, whimpering in sympathy.

She sat down next to Anna and stroked her lovely dark hair.
“Oh,
bambina.
I’m so sorry those girls were mean to
you.”

“Make them go away,” Anna sobbed.

“They’ll be going soon. But first they want to say they’re
sorry.”

“No, they don’t. They’re only saying sorry ’cause you’re making
them.”

Children were way too perceptive. “I think some of them are
sorry.”

Anna shook her head violently. “I don’t want to go down
there.”

Chita knew how her daughter felt. She didn’t want to deal with
those children anymore, either. “You need to hear their apologies and they need
to make them.”

“They’re mean!”

“Yes, they are. But there are mean people everywhere, and the
sooner you learn how to deal with them, the better.” She gave her daughter’s
shoulder a supportive rub. “Come on. I’ll be right there with you.”

The sobs were subsiding into sniffles. Chita went down the hall
to the bathroom and grabbed a tissue, then returned to her daughter’s room and
told her to blow her nose. “There, now let’s show them how a true Girl of
America behaves.”

So back down the stairs they went.

The group was subdued, but little voices floated out to Chita
and Anna. “Mrs. Arness is mean...” “My house is way bigger than this house...”
“Her dog is stupid. So’s Anna...”

Anna balked but Chita gently guided her forward.

They walked into the living room and two of the girls blushed.
Had they been contributors to that conversation or were they feeling guilty by
association?

“Alice? Zuzu? I think you both have something you need to say
to Anna,” Chita said sternly.

“Sorry,” Alice muttered, her tone anything but repentant.

“Sorry,” Zuzu said softly, refusing to look in Anna’s
direction.

Two more girls added their apologies.

Anna said nothing in return. Instead, she turned and ran back
upstairs to her room. Her friend Emma and another little girl went after her,
probably to offer comfort.

Chita let them go. “All right, let’s get our mess cleaned
up.”

“Shouldn’t Emma and Portia help?” Alice asked.

“They’re helping in a different way,” Chita replied.
Cleaning up the emotional mess you made.

The girls were quiet during cleanup, but by the time Chita had
squeezed them in around her small kitchen table for treats, they’d forgotten the
incident and were talking and giggling again.

One by one the mothers arrived to pick up their daughters.
Alice’s mother came to pick up Alice and Zuzu, and Chita had a quiet word with
her before calling the girls out from the kitchen. “No matter where people stand
on the immigration issue, there’s no excuse for bullying.”

“Oh, my,” the woman said weakly. “I’m so sorry.”

“So am I,” Chita said, “since it was mean and not true. I asked
her to apologize and she did, but I thought you should be aware of it.”

The woman nodded. “Thanks. I’ll...speak to her.”

The words held such dread that Chita doubted Alice’s mother
would ever work up the courage to deal with the problem. Alice obviously ruled
that household. What would she be like when she was a teenager?

Chita didn’t want to know.

Alice and Zuzu made their exit, followed by the last couple of
girls. Enrico returned home, and Chita popped him in the tub. Then she and her
daughter had a heart-to-heart about their family history—and about mean girls.
By nine, both children were tucked in and Chita was ready for bed, too.

She took a shower and climbed in between the sheets with her
book club selection. Prejudice. That was something Muriel hadn’t addressed in
her book, probably because she’d never experienced it. Chita sighed. Life would
be so much simpler if people were nice to one another.

Stacy’s observation regarding Chita’s involvement as a leader
for this little troop of vipers came back to her.
It’s a
lot of work to keep kids in your daughter’s life who may not be the best
friends for her.
Maybe it was time to say goodbye to the Girls of
America.

The next morning, her daughter confirmed it. They were going
through the usual morning rush of breakfast, lunch-making, gathering up homework
and feeding Hidalgo. Normally during all this activity Anna was chatty and
happy. This morning she was quiet and solemn and it broke Chita’s heart. She’d
always been able to shrug off her children’s minor injuries like skinned knees
or elbows. “You’ll be fine,” she’d say, and, of course, they always were. There
was no shrugging off this kind of hurt.

“You need to be brave today,” she told Anna, and kissed her
forehead. How she wished she could attend school alongside her daughter and loom
threateningly over any little bully who tormented her. Or let her stay home. But
to keep her away from mean girls they’d have to become hermits. “I know it’s
hard, but you’re a strong girl. And you have your good friends, your true
friends, and they’ll play with you at recess. You can do this, can’t you?”

Anna nodded somberly, then bit her lip. She was on the verge of
saying something.

“What is it,
bambina?
” Chita
asked.

“I don’t want to be a Girl of America anymore,” Anna
blurted.

So what did she do, tell her daughter to tough it out with kids
who didn’t like her? The teasing the night before hadn’t been the first time her
daughter had been unhappy with the Girls of America group. There’d been minor
slights and misunderstandings, but Chita had figured it was important for the
girls to work out their differences. The situation had gone well beyond
that.

Anna’s eyes were fearful and pleading. “Please don’t make
me.”

This was supposed to be fun, a wonderful extracurricular
activity for her child. It was not turning out to be fun. For either of them.
Chita held out her arms and Anna rushed to her side and began to cry.

“Of course I won’t make you,” Chita said.

Her daughter looked up at her and, with tears still running
down her cheeks, smiled. “Thank you, Mama!”

Chita hugged her.
No. Thank
you
. You set us both free.

That evening Chita called Nancy Norgaard, the district
supervisor for Girls of America and tendered her resignation, effective
immediately.

“But, Chita, you’ve been doing such a fabulous job,” Nancy
protested.

“Thank you,” Chita said, “but I’m afraid I just don’t have time
for it anymore.” No time for brats and bullies. “And Anna’s ready to move
on.”

“Oh.” Nancy sounded shocked. “Are you sure you won’t both
reconsider?” she begged. “I don’t know who we’ll get to take over that
group.”

Chita felt guilty—for a millisecond. “Well, good luck,” she
said.